Pandora's Box

I got a deep laceration on my finger today and had to go to the emergency room. I was amused that the doctor who helped me was named Dr. Hand. I kid you not.

Dr. Hand instructed me to stay home from work tonight. I'm kind of bummed. I make tons of extra moula working night shifts. But it's kind of nice to be home, now that I've accepted this fate.

I took a photo of my bandaged hand and went to post it here for you, but my new computer asked for the serial number for my camera and I couldn't find it. I hate serial numbers. This is the second time this week my plans have been obstructed by my lack of them.

Before xraying my finger to assess for signs of shards of glass inside my bloody wound, Dr. Hand asked me, "Is there any chance you could be pregnant?"

"No," I answered matter-of-factly.

"I'm serious," he repeated. "Is there *any* chance?"

"No," I was feeling a little abnoxious. Was it from the blood that had been draining out of my finger for the last hour? "I *wish* that I could say that it was possible that I could be pregnant." I threw him a look, which I'm fairly certain he was able to interpret.

What I wanted to say was, "Listen, dude. I haven't had sex in 4 months. And I'm not even dating, so bugger off with that question. 'S a sore subject right now." Instead, I emphasized my point by making the sign for zero with my thumb and forefinger (this was done using my left hand since the right was occupied with the blood and gauze).

Fortunately that question was the most painful part of my ER visit. The finger - although unable to cooperate with typing this blog due to the large bandage - doesn't hurt at all.